Nothing Burns In Hell

This one is for fans of Quentin Tarantino and of the ever-present gratuitous violence of Robert Altman. It is a direct descendant of Micky Spillane's Mike Hammer and the mystery action pulps epitomized by Black Mask. Philip José Farmer, one of the great living SF writers, who has published many varieties of pulp fiction, who has written novels of Tarzan, Doc Savage, and Oz, now turns his hand to the detective novel, with colorful, violent results. A self-obsessed private detective married to a sincere wiccan is hired to witness an illegal transfer of money in a rainy cemetery, a transaction that goes bloody wrong. Chasing the bad guys, he ends up the prisoner of a gruesome threesome in their Dogpatchy cabin in the woods. His escape involves nudity, blood, death, and a terrible snapping turtle. That's how the mystery begins. Then it leads the private eye through all the levels of Peoria society, geography, and history. Absurdly funny things happen continually in the peripheral vision of the story. No violence is left out. Greed, venality, and hatred are unleashed. Unpleasant family history is brought to light. All the sex is offstage. The body count mounts steadily, with occasional mutilations. Nothing Burns in Hell is pulp fiction at its most excessively gorgeous.